Fragile Atlas
by Pie Badger
Summary: Stranded on an unknown planet, Shiro struggles with the ramifications of Zarkon being able to take control of the Black Lion. [Love Song of the Lions, part 1]


It wasn't any world that he recognized- but he hadn't seen it coming down, and with the prowling light of the sun, he can't see any stars that might help identify his position. It's a deeply unnerving situation, not knowing if he might be alone or surrounded, and which one is a worse proposition.

Zarkon's always been able to find him when they want to. Like escaping- forming Voltron- all of the fighting he had done was for nothing.

It was, wasn't it? Bond with your Lion, Allura said, and left out the part that the person you're fighting can just walk up and snip that bond like it's a piece of ribbon.

Shiro forces himself to breathe. It's frustrating. The whole situation is frustrating. He needs to regroup, and for _that_ , he needs the Black Lion.

It had been sprawled out on its side like a macroscopic piece of roadkill, pieces of glass littering the sand near its reentry. But now he sees it- entirely of its own volition- climbing unsteadily to its feet, vocalizing softly in small grunts and groans as it does.

 _Easy_. Nothing to worry about. He's seen it do this sort of thing before, it's not- …he won't even finish that thought. The lump in his throat says otherwise, especially the way it tightens as the Black Lion swings its head towards him.

His hands ball into fists. He _is_ the Black Paladin. Pidge, Lance, Hunk, Keith, Allura, Coran… they _need_ him to be.

…Is he?

The alternative is _Zarkon_.

The alternative is someone who isn't afraid of his enemies, says a snide little voice in his head. The alternative is someone who doesn't wake up in the middle of the night biting his hand so he doesn't wake everyone else up with screaming.

The Lion waits. Its eyes bore into him. Gold eyes. Like the Galra.

Zarkon's Lion.

He's afraid.

He's afraid of the Black Lion. He can't imagine explaining it to everyone else. At worst, he wouldn't even need to; they'd just know, certifiable evidence their leader is a pathetic coward.

A high, keening sound spills into the air, and Shiro jolts like he's been electrocuted. The desert around them is vast, empty- nothing is there-

It's the Black Lion. Head thrown back, jaws parted, _howling_ like a wounded animal, the lines of its body so stiff that he can practically see the insinuation of tense muscles. Then, just as quickly, it falls silent- and lowers to the ground, curling up on the sand like a several thousand-ton housecat.

He knows the Lions are alive. He's sat at the controls, _felt_ its life hum through the entire mainframe. But usually it's such a subtle presence- to see one acting so, well, _lively_ , is alarming.

Especially given he doesn't have to be an expert on alien lion body language to know that wasn't a happy sound.

The Black Lion.

…His Lion?

He's… well, the only one it really has right now. He pushes another breath low in his chest, tries to calm his racing heart. "…Are you… okay?"

It whimpers.

Well… at least he doesn't feel quite as stupid for asking. Doesn't exactly calm down the near fire-alarm status of his nerves. Shiro lifts his hands. "I'm… going to come closer. Is that okay?"

It _feels_ okay. The still strange, but by now familiar feeling of thoughts in his head that aren't his, and aren't trying to be. He walks until he's within arm's-length of one minivan-sized paw, and sits down on the sand.

It had loved him.

"What?"

The Lion's eyes are dull, almost empty of their usual brightness.

It had loved him, and it betrayed him. Once again, to spit out a paladin as if they were nothing but a scrap of meat- as if to deny the dearly beloved was not to rip out the beating heart a second time.

"I… don't understand what you're- …What do you mean again?"

What follows is not words, but images, sounds, colors- a hurricane of them all at once. Shiro grabs at his head in a futile bid to physically keep them out- and then, he's lying on his back, and everything is silent again.

Something sheepish feeds its way very, very cautiously across their connection.

"That was… loud." He sits up again- taking off his helmet this time, and setting it next to him in the sand.

Zarkon.

"…what about him?"

He was beloved once. And it's a clear picture that accompanies it- there, looking very small from the perspective of the Black Lion's eyes. Younger, softer, almost unrecognizable if not for the bright pink stripe running the length of his face. Zarkon- in the armor of the black paladin.

"…You… like him more than you like me, huh."

A deep discomfort seethes at the question. And something else- a request. Please listen. _Please_.

"I'm not going anywhere." He can't, really- what does it think he's going to do, walk across the desert until he dies of thirst? And part of him- he wants to stay. He wants to know what happened. And _why_. He's just afraid he isn't going to like the answer.

The Lion groans, a long, slow sound like metal scraping on itself. It's not an answer that anyone likes. And again, something contrite. Something reluctant.

"…You're asking me to forgive you?"

He can feel the Lion's response unfurl deep in his chest, something thick, and heavy- something that feels as if it has been lodged there inside of the Black Lion for-

For a thousand years.

It had never wanted to hurt him. It has never wanted to hurt a paladin, and the concept throbs in a way that nearly brings tears to his eyes.

"…Please. Can you explain?"

It has always begun with love. It is the way that a Lion knows its paladin. It is always, and has always been love.

Some are reluctant to embrace that love; in passion, and instinct, it has too often loved and lost, and so it seeks only those who prove themselves as fire-born and fire-blooded; for paladins are such fragile creatures, so very small, and so heartbreakingly beloved.

Some meet this fragileness with strength of their own. It embraces its paladin, and holds it close, and in a deep, sacrificing love that asks for very little in return, it makes the fiercest armor out of its flesh- that within, the pilot is safe and warm.

Others meet with sympathy; it, too, is smaller than its brethren, but it knows that to be small is not a weakness. It seeks those with quick claws and quick minds, and it promises that they will make something together, they will make more than they are given.

And there are those who are the rarest of all, who loves, and loses, and does not fear to love again, for its love pours from its flesh like a waterfall, and it will run with those who have that selfsame fearless heart.

And then…

"…You."

Yes. The love of the sky. A love often misunderstood. What does the sky offer? In fire, warmth and light in the deepest darkness; in water, a love boundless and unconquerable; in earth, an affection to stave away the worst destruction; in wood, a promise of renewal after any winter.

What does the sky offer? It has not a body to build walls, not warmth or renewal. The sky loves its paladins deeply; it loves them in the way that the cosmos cradles a fledgling star, still bleeding scarlet incandescence from its birth; so dear and so fragile are the paladins of the sky. But it cannot offer them safety. Only the freedom to run with the wind.

He has chosen this.

"Allura assigned us all to the different Lions."

The Lion is faintly amused. The young princess has guessed, and guessed well. Nothing more.

"...Okay, but what about you? Did you choose me?"

In a way. It always knows a paladin of the sky when it sees one. And at once, Shiro sees himself- the doors of the Castle parting, the Black Lion bending its head to regard the individual standing before it. Through the eyes of the Lion, he sees himself- and he's struck by how small he looks. _Fragile_ , the Lion had called him. That the black paladins always have been.

"I find it hard to imagine Zarkon as 'fragile'."

Others would say the same thing about him.

"Me?"

The Yellow Lion does not fear the fire of its enemies, for it is incarnate the nature of steel and diamond. It is driven not by bravery, but compassion- in knowing it is safe, it is endowed with safety that it can give to others.

But the sky requires bravery. To be brave is to walk on the wind itself, with everything to lose if you fall. A person who is not brave would seek the compassion of the Yellow Lion, for they seek safety.

What of a person who has every reason to seek safety, who does not? What of a person whose enemies have taken his values, his mind, his very flesh, and cut into it as they please- who comes upon the castle seeking armor and a companion, who asks only for something to carry him forwards into the battle that has torn so much from him?

"Zarkon has to be stopped. I don't…"

Doesn't he? As a person made of glass who nurses his fractures in the night, when he thinks those that look up to him cannot see? As broken, and scared, who continues to chase enemies made of fire and steel- who would stand over the world as its most fearsome creature?

The words are warm and insistent. The Lions, whether or not they realize this, have always sought out creatures that are the most like them.

"…So, what you're saying is… I'm like Zarkon?"

In some ways. In others, not quite. And he is missing something of the point. At once, the image of himself fades from view, and he finds himself staring up at the Black Lion. Softly, he feels it move behind his eyes- trying to look through them.

How does the Black Lion look to him?

Powerful. Almost unstoppable. At the shoulder, towering over its peers, gleaming, winged; once close, reliable- now… uncertain.

Then he has discovered something about its nature. A thread of something accompanies that- mentally, he tugs at it.

Fear. Anxiety. Gleaming eyes and gleaming knives, the cold metal bite of a muzzle digging into the bridge of his nose-

He pulls back from the connection, breathing, shaken- unrestrained, nothing is covering his face. That scar is closed, was closed a long time ago, but he still feels the indent when he brings a hand up to his face.

The thread nudges at him again. Not immediately; when he is ready, but it is important.

"…I'm fine." He lies, breathlessly, and reaches.

Fear. Anxiety. Small red stains on silver claws. A voice- once familiar- once warm- once beloved- now biting, now _sneering_ , hands on controls, his body tugging against itself from within- "We _had_ to. Black, listen to me. Black-"

Zarkon- small, fragile, in strange armor, dark and spiky, tumbling, through space. Looking back at him- eyes wide enough that a thin band of white is showing around the gold- afraid. Afraid of him.

Turning away, spreading wings, firing the thrusters- away, through the sky, to leave behind a single, tumbling speck.

Zarkon.

It had loved him.

It had been wounded by him; and, thus wounded, thus fragile, it had fled.

A new vision. The black lion's hangar. A muffled voice, shrill, angry- Allura, pounding on the barrier. "People are dying! Altea is under siege! Don't you _care_?"

Thus wounded, thus fragile, it had hid.

Time passes. King Alfor shutting the doors, his eyes on the Black Lion. He is no paladin of the sky- but he understands enough.

Thus wounded, thus fragile, it resigned itself; a useless weapon, a heartless Lion. Better quarantined and kept away, as a broken creature useful to no one.

Emptiness. Dormancy. Lions do not sleep. Nestled within the castle it hears nothing. The loneliness is devouring but infinitely worse is the prickling of Zarkon seeking it- tugging at what remains of their bond. Fear; anxiety; blood on the claws of the protector of the galaxy. Fouled, defiled, _used_ , broken- and a traitor to its own love, a traitor to its paladin.

"He was wrong. You had to stop him."

Matthew Holt, sprawled on the ground. Shiro over him- blood on the sword in his hands. A leg that would never work again, not the same way.

He was in danger. You had to save him.

Shiro turns his head away. The Lion does not.

He sees now- they are not comforting words.

"So… you didn't accept Allura."

She could have been worthy. Another time, it would have.

"Then why me?"

Light through the doors of the hangar. The other four Lions- their paladins are predictable, familiar, even as strangers.

Thus wounded, thus fragile; it will not do them any good. It is-

-someone who could not save his crew. A fearful person, who squares his jaw, and tries to stay strong.

Blood on the Lion's claws.

Blood on the sword in his hands.

Someone still needs you, said the stranger in Black's hangar.

Someone still needs you, says the Black Lion now, to its paladin.

It climbs to its feet. He climbs to his feet.

To become the spirit of the sky is to embrace nothingness itself, when in need of guiding flames, shielding earth, boundless water and ambitious growth. It is to oppose individuals who flood the mind with fear, whose voice, whose presence, instills such terror that they may, once again, make you into such a creature that will turn on its own, and draw blood too precious to be spilled.

"He can get in your head because you're still scared of him. You… froze up."

Shiro's own words surprise him. He listens to them stirring the air. But it makes sense. He understands perfectly- in the way that someone can who is in that situation.

(he still feels his own metal arm closing around his throat. It wasn't real- but yet it was)

"You froze up, and he just… walked right in, like it was nothing. Like nothing you'd done since getting away actually meant anything. Like you were just a toy he was waiting to come back."

A rumbling growl rises in the Lion's throat, in cadence with the bitterness in his voice. Twisting across their connection- frustration, helplessness, fear- and it flows both ways.

Something in Shiro's chest unfolds, like a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It climbs his throat, and it comes out laughing and crying at the same time.

Zarkon understands, the Black Lion suggests- Zarkon understands what it is to become the sky. But he does not understand the Black Lion any more- because he does not understand the ravening, swallowing sense of fear- fear that lingers and haunts and chews at the insides. He does not understand what it is to continue fighting in this state.

Shiro understands, the Black Lion says. He understands. It understands.

Time. Silence. The desert sun and heat. Shiro cries, until everything lodged in his chest- Black's chest- his chest- has come out, and he has air for other things. He does not speak, not at first. The Black Lion waits.

"It's hard."

It is.

"We're going to end up there again."

They are.

"I don't know if we can beat him."

They don't.

"But we can't give up, can we?"

They could. But that is not who they are.

He lifts his arm- an arm that still throbs, sometimes, trying to remember the living flesh that used to be there, one startling sometimes for the unexpected whirs and hums of flexing servos.

It bends its head; the vast, red plane of its nose presses against his spread fingers.

"We're not done yet."

No, not yet.


End file.
